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<f>- » o N O 



FLOWER IDYLS 



EDITED BY 



GERTRUDE STROHM 



Oh, to what uses shall we put 

The wild weed flower that simply blows? 
And is there any moral shut 

Within the bosom of the rose? 

But any man that walks the mead, 
In bud, or blade, or bloom, may find, 

According - as his humors lead, 
A meaning suited to his mind. 

— Tennyson . 




BOSTON 
PUBLISHED BY ESTES 
1887 



LAURIAT 






Copyright, 1887, 
By Estes and Lauriat 



' i 



til .1116 Cburtbill 

BOSTON 



Eo tye Bear Hflcmorg 

OF 

MY MOTHER, 

MARGARET GUTHRIE STROHM, 

AND OF 

MY AUNT, 

ELOISE GUTHRIE STROHM. 



INDEX. 



FLOWERS FOR THE 

i. CLERGYMAN. 

2. DOCTOR. 

3. LAWYER. 
4- ARTIST. 

5. POET. 

6. MUSICIAN. 

7. SOLDIER. 

8. SAILOR. 

9. MERCHANT. 

10. JEWELLER. 

11. ROYALTY. 

12. BEAUTY'S BOUQUET. 

13. FARMER'S WIFE. 

14. SEAMSTRESS. 

15. WASHERWOMAN. 

16. COOK. 

17- CONFECTIONER. 

18. MILLER. 



19- CARPENTER. 

20. BLACKSMITH. 

21. SHOEMAKER. 

22. LOVERS. 

23. OLD BACHELOR. 

24. OLD MAIDS. 

25. SHOWMAN. 

26. SMOKERS BOUQUET. 

27. DANDY. 

28. TRAMP. 

29. YOUTH AND OLD AGE. 



NOTE. 



My warmest thanks and acknowledgments are grate- 
fully tendered to the authors and publishers who have 
so freely and courteously permitted me to select from 
their copyrighted works. 

I owe very much to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & 
Co. ; also to Miss L. M. Alcott, and her publishers, 
Messrs. Roberts Brothers; to Mr. J T. Trow- 
bridge and Messrs. Lee & Shepard; Mr. Joaquin 
Miller and Messrs. Funk & Wagnalls; Mr. 
William Allen Butler; Messrs. Cupples, Upham, 
& Co.; and to the "New York Independent.", 

G. S. 



THE CLERGYMAN 



PULPIT-PLANT, ARUM. 
BELL-FLOWER, ABUTILON. 



THE pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'd 
With solemn awe, that bids me well 
beware 
With what intent I touch that holy thing), — 
The pulpit (when the satirist has at last, 
Strutting and vaporing in an empty school, 
Spent all his force, and made no proselyte), — 
I say the pulpit (in the sober use 
Of its legitimate, peculiar powers) 
Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall 

stand, 
The most important and effectual guard, 
Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause. 

There stands the messenger of truth. There 

stands 
The legate of the skies. His theme divine, 
His office sacred, his credentials clear. 
By him the violated law speaks out 

Its thunders ; and by him, in strains as sweet 
As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. 

— The Task. — Cowper. 



Bells are the voice of the Church : 
They have tones that touch and search 

The hearts of the young and old ; 
One sound to all, yet each 
Lends a meaning to their speech, 

And the meaning is manifold. 

— The Bells of Sa?i Bias, H. W. Longfellow. 

(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.) 



THE DOCTOR 



BONESET, EUPATORIUM PERFOLIATUM. 
SPEEDWELL, VERONICA. 



' A SURGEON must have a lion's heart, 
-i*- an eagle's eye, and a lady's hand." 



" It is not only for the sick man, but the 
sick man's friends, that the doctor comes. His 
presence is often as good for them as for the 
patient, and they long for -him yet more eagerly. 
How we have all watched after him ! What an 
emotion the thrill of his carriage-wheels in the 
street, and at length at the door, has made us 
feel ! How we hang upon his words, and what 
a comfort we get from a smile or two, if he can 
vouchsafe that sunshine to lighten ! " 



" What a fine thing it must be for a doctor to 

watch the return of health to a patient's face, — 

to watch the color coming back, and the eyes 

looking happy again, and the spirits rising; 

and to think that maybe he has helped." 

— White Wings. — William Black. 



THE LAWYER 



SOLOMON'S SEAL, CORNALLARIA 
RACEMOSA. 



F 



ULL of wise saws and modern in- 
stances. 

— Shakspeare. 



Till thou canst rail the seals from off my bond, 
Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud. 

— Shakspeare. 

Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays 
Now divers birds are heard to sing, 

And sundry flowers their heads upraise, 
Hail to the coming on of spring ! 

The songs of those said birds arouse 
The memory of our youthful hours, 

As green as those said sprays and boughs, 
As fresh and sweet as those said flowers. 

The birds aforesaid — happy pairs — 

Love 'mid the aforesaid boughs inshrines 

In freehold nests, themselves, their heirs, 
Administrators, and assigns. 

O busiest turn of Cupid's court, 

Where tender plaintiffs actions bring, - 

Season of frolic and of sport, 

Hail, as aforesaid, coming Spring ! 

— H. P. H. Brownell. 



THE ARTIST 



TUBE-ROSES, TUBEROSE. 
PAINT-BRUSHES, CAGALIA, 



THE KING'S PICTURE. 



BY NELLIE L. TINKHAM. 



THE Artist painted the picture. It 
hung in the palace hall. 
Never had thing so radiant e'er shone 
on the burnished wall. 
The King, with head uncovered, gazed on the face 

so fair, 
And cried: " O painter! tell us thy secret, grand 

and rare. 
Tell us what isle Elysian, what fairyland of bliss, 
Holds in its magic keeping a vision such as this. 
Ah, the earth is low and fallen ! there is no 

place or spot 
Where beauty is not marred by sin's foul stain 

and blot. 
Tell us this spot enchanted, far from the haunts 
of men, 
Where we may find perfection and dream 
our dreams again." 



The Artist smiled and answered : " Wouldst thou 

my secret know? 
Bid thy warden ope the gate to the crowd 

that waits below." 
The brazen portal opened, and there poured 

with hurrying feet,_. 
A throng of ragged beggars from out the 

dusty street. 
The courtiers looked in wonder ; the King stood 

in amaze ; 
Never before had sight so strange encountered his 

royal gaze. 
Then said the Artist, kneeling: "O sire! give 

patient heed, 
And the meaning of ray riddle thine eyes can 
surely read. 
No living thing upon God's earth so low and 

stained can be 
That beauty rare may not be found by eyes 

that clearly see." 
Ah ! the crowd of ragged beggars — hungry, 
and gaunt, and sad — 
Where in your wretched faces shall be 
found that vision glad ? 



Lo ! a woman looked upon them with haggard 

eyes and wild, 
And they saw the brow He had painted, 

the brow of a trusting child ; 
And one, sin-stained and fallen, with bold, 

unblushing stare, 
Stood crowned in the glancing sunlight, 

with the picture's golden hair ; 
And one whose voice all day had rung with 

pitiful', hungry cries, 
Looked up with the beautiful pleading of the 

picture's wondrous eyes ; 
And one who was blind and palsied begged for 

her bitter bread 
With the lips whose curving sweetness He had 
painted warm and red. 
And still the courtiers wondered, each held his 

bated breath, 
And through the lordly hall there fell a silence 

deep as death, 
While the sovereign, proud and haughty, low 
bowed his kingly head. 
" Thy riddle, cunning painter, mine eyes 
have plainly read ! " 



And he thought of another court than this ; of 

a mightier King than he, 
Whose coming in His beauty his eye would 

one day see ; 
Of the crowd of ragged beggars that, with 

pleading hands, would wait, 
Sinful, and poor, and wretched, outside the 

palace gate ; 
And of the wondrous Master, who sees each 

hidden soul, 
And makes of the broken fragments the glorious, 

perfect whole. 

— From New York Independent. 

(By permission.) 



THE POET 



EGLANTINE. BOSA EUBIGINOSA. 



THE Eglantine, or wild-briar rose, 
more commonly called sweet 
briar, has ever been considered 
the Poets' 1 flower." 



The Poet in a golden clime was born, 

With golden stars above ; 
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, 

The love of love. 

— Tennyson. 



Vex not thou the Poet's mind 

With thy shallow wit ; 
Vex not thou the Poet's mind, 
For thou canst not fathom it. 

Clear and bright it should be ever, 
Flowing like a crystal river, 
Bright as light, and clear as wind. 

— Tennyson. 



THE DAY IS DONE. 



The day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of night 

As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 



I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 

That my soul cannot resist, — 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles the rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 



Not from the grand old masters, 
Not from the bards sublime, 

Whose distant footsteps echo 
Through the corridors of time. 

For, like strains of martial music, 
Their mighty thoughts suggest 

Life's endless toil and endeavor, 
And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet. 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 

As showers from the clouds of summer, 
Or tears from the eyelids start ; 

Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 
The restless pulse of care, 

And come like the benediction 
That follows after prayer. 



Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 

— Longfellow. 
(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.) 



THE MUSICIAN 



OATS, SYMBOL OP MUSIC. 



L' 



ET the pealing organ blow, 
To the full-voic'd choir 
below, 
In service high and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness through mine ear 
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
And bring all heaven before mine eyes ! 

— II Penseroso. — Milton. 



Her ivory hands on the ivory keys 
Strayed in a fitful fantasy, 

Like the silver gleam when the poplar trees 
Rustle their pale leaves listlessly, 
Or the drifting foam of a restless sea 

When the waves show their teeth in the flying 
breeze. 

— J 11 the Gold Room. — Oscar WiLDE. 



I was a wild and wayward boy, 

My childhood scorn'd each childish toy, 

Retir'd from all, reserv'd, and coy, 

To musing prone, 
I woo'd my solitary joy, — 

My harp alone. 
Ambition's dream I've seen depart, 
Have read of penury the smart, 
Have felt of love the venom' d dart 

When hope was flown ; 
Yet rests one solace to my heart, — 

My harp alone. 

— Rokeby. — Scott. 



All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 

To the dancers dancing in tune; 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 

— Maud. —Tennyson. 



THE SOLDIER 



ARTILLERY-PLANT, PILEA. 
3W0RD-FERN, NEPHROLEPIS EXALTATA, 
TRUMPET-FLOWER, TECOMA RADICANS 



F 



OR gold the merchant ploughs the main, 
The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the soldier's prize,— 
The soldier's wealth is honor. 



— BUKNS. 



A soldier of the Legion 
Lay dying at Algiers ; 
There was lack of woman's nursing — 
There was dearth of woman's tears; 
But a comrade stood beside him, 

While his life-blood ebbed away, 
And bent, with pitying glances, 
To hear what he might say. 
The dying soldier faltered 

As he took that comrade's hand, 
And he said, " I never more shall see 
My own, my native land ; 

Take a message and a token 

To some distant friends of mine, 



For I was born at Bingen — 
Fair Bingen on the Rhine. 

" Tell my brothers and companions, 

When they meet and crowd around, 
To hear my mournful story, 

In the pleasant vineyard ground, 
That we fought the battle bravely, . 

And that when the day was done, 
Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale 

Beneath the setting sun ; 
And 'midst the dead and dying, 

Were some grown old in years — 
The death wounds on their gallant breasts, 

The last of many scars ; 
But some were young, and suddenly 

Beheld life's morn decline, 
And one had come from Bingen — 
From Bingen on the Rhine ! 

" Tell my mother that her other sons 
Shall comfort her old age, 
For I was still a truant-bird 

That thought his home a cage; 



For my father was a soldier, 

And even when a child 
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell 

Of struggles fierce and wild ; 
And when he died and left us 

To divide his scanty hoard, 
I let them take whate'er they would. 

But kept my father's sword ; 
And with boyish love I hung it 

Where the bright light used to shine, 
On the cottage hall at Bingen — 

Calm Bingen on the Rhine. 

" Tell my sister not to weep for me, 

And sob with drooping head, 
When the troops come marching home 
again. 
With glad and gallant tread ; 
But to look upon them proudly, 

With calm and steadfast eye, 
For her brother was a soldier, too, 
And not afraid to die ; 

And if a comrade seek her love, 
I ask her in my name 



To listen to him kindly, 

Without regret or. shame ; 
And to hang the old sword in its place, 

My father's sword and mine, 
For the honor of old Bingen — 

Dear Bingen on the Rhine. 

"There's another — not a sister — 

■In happy days gone by, 
You'd have known her by the merriment 

That sparkled in her eye ; 
Too innocent for coquetry, 

Too fond for idle scorning ; 
O friend ! I fear the lightest heart 

Makes sometimes heaviest mourning. 
Tell her the last night of my life — 
(For ere this moon be risen, 
My body will be out of pain, 
My soul be out of prison ) , 
I dreamed I stood with her and saw 
The yellow sunlight shine 

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — 
Fair Bingen on the Rhine. 



" I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — 

I heard, or seem'd to hear, 
The German songs we used to sing 

In chorus sweet and clear; 
And down the pleasant river, 

And up the slanting hill, 
The echoing chorus sounded 

Through the evening calm and still ; 
And her glad blue eyes were on me 

As we pass'd, with friendly talk, 
Down man)- a path beloved of yore, 

And well-remember'd walk; 
And her little hand lay lightly 

And confidingly in mine, — 
But we'll meet no more at Bingen — 

Loved Bingen on the Rhine ! " 

His voice grew faint and hoarse, 

His grasp was childish weak, 
His eyes put on a dying look, 
He sighed and ceased to speak. 
His comrade bent to lift him ; 
But the spark of life had fled, 



The soldier of the Legion 

In a foreign land was dead. 

And the soft moon rose up slowly, 

And calmly she looked down 
On the red sand of the battle-field 

With bloody corpses strewn ; 
Yes, calmly on the dreadful scene, 

Her pale light seemed to shine, 
As it shone on distant Bingen — 

Fair Bingen on the Rhine ! 

— Bingen on the Rhine. — Hon. Mrs. Norton. 



Sleep, Soldiers ! still in honored rest 
Your truth and valor wearing; 

The bravest are the tenderest, — 
The loving are the daring. 

— Bayard Taylok. 
(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.) 



THE SAILOR 



SEA-PINK, APMERIA MAPJTIMA, 
COMPASS-PLANT, SILPHIUM LAGINIATUM, 
SPIELL-ELOWER, MOLUCCA BALM, 
MOLUCELLA. 



T 



AKE the bright shell 

From its home on the lea, 
And wherever it goes 
It will sing of the sea; 



So take the fond heart 

From its home and its hearth, 

'Twill sing of the loved 
To the ends of the earth. 

— Anon. 



I love the sailor — his eventful life — 

His generous spirit — his contempt of dan 
ger- 
ms firmness in the gale, the wreck, and strife ; 
And though a wild and reckless ocean-ranger, 
God grant he make that port, when life is o'er, 
Where storms are hushed, and billows break 
no more. 

— Rev. Walter Colton. 



A BALLAD OF NANTUCKET. 



"Where go you, pretty Maggie, — 
Where go you in the rain?" 

"I go to ask the sailors 

Who sailed the Spanish Main, 

" If they have seen my Willie, 
If he'll come back to me, — 

It is so sad to have him 
A-sailing on the sea ! " 

" O Maggie, pretty Maggie, 
Turn back to yonder town ; 

Your Willie's in the ocean, 
A hundred fathoms down ! 

" His hair is turned to sea-kelp, 
His eyes are changed to stones, 

And twice two years have knitted 
The coral round his bones ! 



THE MERCHANT 



RIBBON-GRASS, PHALARIS ARUNDI- 
NAGEA, 

FRINGE, CHIONANTHUS VIRGINICA. 

LACE-PLANT, D ANGUS CAROTA, 

SILK-WEED, ASCLEPIAS SYRIACA. 

VELVET-PLANT, MULLEIN, 

SATIN-FLOWER, LUNARIA. 



" The blossoms and the clover 
Shall bloom and bloom again, 

But never shall your lover 

Come o'er the Spanish Main ! " 

But Maggie never heeded, 

For mournfully said she: 
" It is so sad to have him 

A-sailing on the sea ! " 

She left me in the darkness ; 

I heard the sea-gulls screech, 
And burly winds were growling 

With breakers on the beach. 

The bells of old Nantucket, — 
What touching things they said, 

When Maggie lay a-sleeping 
With lilies round her head ! 

The parson preached a sermon, 

And prayed and preached again, — 
But she had gone to Willie 
Across the Spanish Main. 

— T. B. Aldrich. 
(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.) 



THE JEWELLER 



LADY'S EARDROPS, FUCHSIA. 
CORAL-PLANT, ERITHRINA. 
IVORY THISTLE,; CHAMAEPENCE 

DIACANTHA. 
BLUE AMETHYST, BROWALLIA. 



H 



E hath ribands of all the colours i' the 
rainbow. 

— Winter's Tale. — Shakspeare. 



. . . All manner of things that a woman 
can put 
On the crown of her head, or the sole of 

her foot, 
Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her 

waist, 
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, 
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, 
In front or behind, above or below ; 
For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls ; 
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ; 
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; 
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; 
Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; 
Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall, — 
All of them different in color and pattern, 
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and 

satin. 
— Nothing to Wear. — William Allen Butler. 

(By permission.) 



ROYALTY 



CROWN IMPERIAL, FRITLLLARIA 
IMPERIALIS. 



u 



— JASPER first," I said, 

J "And second, sapphire; third, 
Chalcedony ; 
The rest in order, . . . last, an amethyst." 

— Aurora Leigh. — Mrs. Browning. 



There are no nobler earthly ornaments 
Than jewels of the city of the saved. 

— Festvs. — P. J. Bailey. 



God bless thee, weeping Queen, 

With blessing more divine ! 
And fill with happier love than earth's 

That tender heart of thine ! 
That when the thrones of earth shall be 

As low as graves brought down, 
A pierced hand may give to thee 
The crown which angels shout to see! 
Thou wilt not weep 

To wear that heavenly crown ! 

— Victories Tears. — Mrs. E. B. Browning. 



SHE WEPT TO WEAR A CROWN! 

/^\ maiden I heir of kings ! 
^^ A king has left his place ! 
The majesty of death has swept 

All other from his face ! 
And thou upon thy mother's breast 

No longer lean adown, 
But take the glory for the rest, 
And rule the land that loves thee best!" 
She heard and wept, — 
She wept to wear a crown ! 

They decked her courtly halls ; 

They reined her hundred steeds ; 
They shouted at her palace gate, 

" A noble queen succeeds ! " 
Her name has stirred the mountain's sleep, 

Her praise has filled the town ! 
And mourners God had stricken deep, 

Looked hearkening up, and did not weep, 
Alone she wept, — 
Who wept to wear a crown ! 



She saw no purple shine, 

For tears had dimmed her eyes ; 
She only knew her childhood's flowers 

Were happier pageantries ! 
And while her heralds played the 
part, 
For million shouts to drown — 
" God save the Queen " from hill to 

mart, — 
She heard through all her beating heart, 
And turned and wept, — 
She wept to wear a crown ! 

God save thee, weeping Queen ! 

Thou shalt be well beloved ! 
The tyrant's sceptre cannot move, 

As those pure tears have moved ! 
The nature in thine eyes we see, 

That tyrants cannot own. 
The love that guardeth liberties ! 

Strange blessing on the nation lies, 

Whose sovereign wept, — 

Yea ! wept to wear its crown ! 



BEAUTY'S FLORA 



BLUE-EYED MARY, LOBELIA. 
BELLE OF THE EVENING, MIRABILIS 
JALAPA. 

QUAKER LADY, EUPHORBIA MARGINATA. 



T TER clear blue eyes beneath a forehead fair, 
A A Arched like an Iris, looked beneath their 

lashes 
Like morning-glories, and her curling hair 
Threw off such light as from the laurel 
flashes. 

— Rums Da\VEs. 



Is thy name Mary, maiden fair? 

Such should, methinks, its music be; 
The sweetest names that mortals bear 
Were best befitting thee. 

' — O W. Holmes. 
(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.) 



I saw her at a county ball ;• 

There, where the sound of flute and fiddle 
Gave signal sweet in that old hall 

Of hands across and down the middle. 
Hers was the subtlest spell by far 

Of all that sets young hearts romancing ; 
She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
And when she danced — O Heaven, her 
dancing ! 



Dark was her hair ; her hand was white ; 

Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
Her eyes were full of liquid light ; 

I never saw a waist so slender ; 
Her every look, her even- smile, 

Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, 

I wondered where she'd left her sparrows. 
— The Belle of the Ball. — Wi.xthrop Mackworth Praed. 



A native grace 
Sat fair proportion'd on her polish' d limbs, 
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire, 
Beyond the pomp of dress ; for loveliness 
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, 
But is, when unadorned, adorn'd the most; 
Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self. 

— Thomson. 

A violet by a mossy stone, 

Half hidden from the eye, — 

Fair as a star when only one 

Is shining in the sky. > 

— Wadsworth. 



FARMER'S WIFE 



BUTTER AND EGGS, ANTISSHINUM 
LIN ASIA. 



THE sun-brown farmer in his frock 
Shook hands and called to 
Mary; 
Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came, 
White-aproned from her dairy. 

Her air, her smile, her motions, told 

Of womanly completeness ; 
A music as of household songs 

Was in her voice of sweetness. 

Not beautiful in curve and line. 

But something more and better, 
The secret charm eluding art, — 

Its spirit, not its letter; 

An inborn grace that nothing lacked 
Of culture or appliance, — 

The warmth of genial courtesy, 
The calm of self-reliance. 



Before her queenly womanhood 

How dared our hostess utter 
The paltry errand of her need, — 

To buy her fresh-churned butter? 

She led the way with house-wife pride, 

Her goodly store disclosing, 
Full tenderly the golden balls 

With practised hands disposing. 

— Among the Hills.— John G. Whittier. 
(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin. & Co.) 



THE SEAMSTRESS 



NEEDLE TREES, PINES. 

THREADY YUCCA, YUCCA PILAMENTOSA. 



THE NEEDLE. 



THE gay belles of fashion may boast 
of excelling 

In waltz or cotillon, at whist or quadrille, 
And seek admiration by bantingly telling 

Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill ; 
But give me the fair one, in country or city, 

Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, 
Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, 

While plying the needle with exquisite art; 
The bright little needle, the swift-flying needle, 

The needle directed by beauty and art. 

If love have a potent, a magical token, 

A talisman, ever resistless and true, 
A charm that is never evaded or broken, 
A witchery certain the heart to subdue, 
'Tis this; and his armory never has fur- 
nished 
So keen and unerring, or polished a dart ; 



'» 



Let beauty direct it, so polished and burnished, 
And oh, it is certain of touching the heart ! 

The bright little needle, the swift-flying needle, 
The needle directed by beauty and art. 

Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admira- 
tion, 

By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all ; 
You never, whate'er be your fortune or station, 

Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, 
As gayly convened at the work-covered table, 

Each cheerfully active playing her part, 
Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, 

And plying the needle with e-xquisite art: 
Thejaright little needle, the swift-flying needle, 

The needle directed by beauty and art. 

— T. S. Woodworth. 



THE WASHERWOMAN 



WATER IT7Y. 
SOAP-WORT, SAPONARIA. 
INDIGO-PLANT, PERILLA, 



* 



A SONG FROM THE SUDS. 



QUEEN of my tub, I merrily sing, 
While the white foam rises high ; 
And sturdily wash and rinse, and wring, 
And fasten the clothes to dry; 
Then out in the free, fresh air they swing, 
Under the sunny sky. 

I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls 

The stains of the week away, 
And let water and air by their magic make 

Ourselves as pure as they; 
Then on the earth there would be indeed 

A glorious washing-day ! 

Along the path of a useful life 
Will hearts-ease ever bloom ; 

The busy mind has no time to think 
Of sorrow, or care, or gloom ■ 

And anxious thoughts may be swept away 
As we busily wield a broom. 



I am glad a task to me is given 

To labor at day by day; 
For it brings me health, and strength, and hope, 

And I cheerfully learn to say, — 
" Head, you may think; heart, you may 
feel; 

But hand, you shall work ahvay ! " 

— Little Women. — Louisa M. Alcott. 

(By permission of Roberts Bros.) 



THE COOK 



LOBSTER CACTUS, EP1PHTLLUM 

TRUNCATUM. 
BEEF'S TONGUE CACTUS. 
LAMB'S QUARTER, CHENOPODIUM 

ALBUM. 

SWEET PEAS, LATHYRUS ODORATUS. 

MINT VERBENA, PEPPER GERANIUM. 

PALESTINE MUSTARD, ERYSIMUM. 



WE may live without poetry, music, and 
art; 
We may live without conscience, and live 
without heart; 
We may live without friends ; we may live without 

books ; 
But civilized man cannot live without cooks. 

— Lucile. — Owen Meredith. 



" She's such a clever woman-cook ! 

. When she begins to speak, 
She asks such dreadful questions, — oh! 

How many quarts of milk a week 
Shall I require? how should I know! 

And what may be the price of coals? 
How many tons will be enough? 

Shall she take quartern loaves, or rolls? 
And do I want the kitchen stuff? 
I've ordered dinner, — 'tis a fact 
That I was frightened at the act ! 
Says I, 'A leg of lamb you'll get; ' 
Says she, 'It's not in season yet;' 
So turning somewhere for relief, 
I said, ' Then get a leg of beef; ' 
She look'd so keenly in my face 
She made me feel the whole disgrace ; 
And so I cried, ' Get anything ! ' 
And ran upstairs to play and sing." 

— Mrs. Jerningham's Journal. 



THE CONFECTIONER 



CANDY-TUFT, .IBERIS. 



s 



WEETS to the sweet. 

— Hamlet. — Shakspeake. 



Candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd 
With jellies smoother than the creamy curd,. 
And lucid syrups, tinct with cinnamon. 



— The Eve of St. Agues. — Keats. 



THE MILLER 



DUSTY MILLER, CINERARIA MARITIMA. 



SEE the wealthy Miller yet, 
J- His double chin, his portly size, 
And who that knew him could forget 
The busy wrinkles round his eyes? 
The slow, wise smile that round about 

His dusty forehead dryly curl'd 
Seem'd half-within and half-without 
And full of dealings with the world. 

I loved the brimming wave that swam 

Through quiet meadows round the mill, 
The sleepy pool above the dam, — 

The pool beneath it never still, 
The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, 

The dark round of the dripping wheel, 
The very air about the door, 

Made misty with the floating meal. 

— The Miller's Daughter. — TENNYSON. 



THE CARPENTER 



PLANE TREE, PLATANUS. 
SAW PALMETTO, SABAL SERRULATA. 
USEFUL SCREW PINE, PANDANUS 
UTILIS. 



THE sound of tools to a clever 
* workman, who loves his work, 
is like the tentative sounds of 
the orchestra to the violinist who has to 
bear his part in the overture ; the strong 
fibres begin their accustomed thrill. 

— Adam Bede. — Geo. Eliot. 



What grand beeches ! Adam delighted in a 

fine tree of all things. As the .fisherman's sight 

is keenest on the sea, so Adam's perceptions 

were more at home with trees than with other 

objects. He kept them in his memory, as a 

painter does, with all the flecks and knots in 

their bark, all the curves and angles of their 

boughs ; and had often calculated the height 

and contents of a trunk to a nicety, as he stood 

looking at it. 

— Adam Bede. — Geo. Eliot. 



Much can he praise the trees so straight and high, 
The sapling pine ; the cedar proud and tall ;' 
The vine-propp elme ; the poplar never dry.; 
The builder oake ; sole king of forrests all ; 
The aspine good for staves. 

— Spenser. 



THE BLACKSMITH 



HORSE-SHOE GERANIUM, 
IRON- WEED, T7ERHONIA. 
RED-HOT POKER, TRITOMA. 



a 



HE is rich in the best of all metals, 
Yet silver he lacks, and gold; 
And he payeth his due, and his heart 
is true, 
Though he bloweth both hot and cold. 

He hath shoes that are worn by strangers, 
Yet he laugheth and maketh more ; 

And a share (concealed) in the poor man's field, 
Yet it adds to the poor man's store. 

Then hurrah for the iron blacksmith ! 

And hurrah for his iron crew ! 
And whenever we go where his forges glow, 

We'll sing what a Man can do." 

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 

- Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 



Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 

— The Village Blacksmith. — H. W. Longfellow. 

(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. ) 



THE SHOEMAKER 



INDIA-KUBBER PLANT, PRICUS 

PLASTIC A. 
LADY'S SLIPPER, CYPPIPPDIUM, 



/ 



~^HE foot is yours ; where'er it falls 

J- It treads your well-wrought leather, 

On earthen floor, in marble halls, 
On carpet, or on heather. 
Still there the sweetest charm is found 

Of matron grace or vestals, 
As Hebe's foot bore nectar round 
Among the old celestials ! 

Rap, rap! —your stout and bluff brogan, 

With footsteps slow and weary, 
May wander where the sky's blue span 

Shuts down upon the prairie. 
On beauty's foot, your slippers glance, 

By Saratoga's fountains, 
Or twinkle down the summer dance 

Beneath the crystal mountains. 

The red brick to the mason's hand. 
The brown earth to the tiller's; 

The shoe in yours shall wealth command, 
Like fairy Cinderella's ! 



As they who shunned the household maid 

Beheld the crown upon her, 
So all shall see your toil repaid 

With hearth, and home, and honor. 

— The Shoemakers. — John G. Whittier. 
(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co.) 



LOVER'S BOUQUET 



LOVE-IN-IDLENESS, PANSY, VIOLA 

TRICOLOR. 
LOVE IN A MIST, NICtELLA. 
LOVE IN A PUPE, GARDIOSPERMUM. 



"X/ET mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell ; 
•A It fell upon a little western flower, 
Before milk-white, now purple with 
love's wound, 
And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 
— Midsummer Night's Dream — Shakspeare. 



WHAT. 



She was working a slipper, — but she didn't like 
that ; 
She sang a little melody, — that wouldn't do ; 
She tried to read a little, then she played with the 
cat, 
And then commenced a note, — " Dearest, why 
didn't you ? " 
And then she tore it up, and then tried to 
keep still 
And watch the spent sun till he dropped 
behind the hill. 



He was reading a novel, — but he didn't like that; 
So he took down his fishing-rod, — //to wouldn't 
do ; 

Then he whistled to his dog, then he put 
on his hat, 
And then commenced a note, — " Dear- 
est, why didn't you ? " 

And then he tore it up, and then tried to 
keep still 

And watch the spent sun till he dropped behind 
the hill. 

The sun dropped out of sight, and she walked up 
the lane ; 
He too, quite by chance, of course, came along ; 
So they met, and they stopped ; not a look would 
either deign ; 
Then he said nothing, and naught had she to 
say. 
At last he looked up at her, and she looked 
up too — 
"Why didn't you, dearest?" — "Dearest, 

why didn't you? " 

— Anon. 



HE AND SHE. 



" Should one of us remember, 
And one of us forget, 
I wish I knew what each would do, 
But who can tell as yet? 

" Should one of us remember, 
And one of us forget, 
I promise you what I will do- — 
And I'm content to wait for you, 
And not be sure as yet." 

— Christina Rossetti. 



LOVE SONGS OF THE PERIOD. 



I love you, Love, for good or ill, 
As brown bees love sweet honey ; 

I love you, Love, soul, heart, and will, 
For sombre skies or sunny; 

And yet I pause, I falter still, 

For, oh ! one thought, one doubt doth thrill,— 
My darling, have you money? 

I love you, Love, I love you, Love; 

But, oh, you must have money ! 
A sweet rose is a rose, my love ; 

Yet if it holds no honey 
The busy bee he will not stay, 
But, humming airs, he flies away, 

To find a rose with honey. 

Chorus : 

I love you, Love, I love you, Love; 
But, oh, you must have money ! 

— " Memorie and Rime." — JOAQUIN MiI.ler. 

(By permission of Funk & Wagnalls.) 



OLD BACHELORS 



BACHELOR'S BUTTONS, GOMPHRENA. 



OLD MAIDS 



MAIDEN'S HAIR, ADIANTUM. 
CURLS. CLEMATIS VIORNA. 



AUNT HANNAH. 



SHE is known to all the town, in her 
quaintly-fashioned gown, 
And wide bonnet — you would guess it at the 
distance of a mile ; 
With her little sprigs of smilax, and her lavender 
and lilacs, 
Snowy napkins and big basket, and serenely 
simple smile. 



She is just a little queer ; and few gentle-folk, 
I fear, 
In their drawing-rooms would welcome that 
benignant, beaming face ; 
And the truth is, old Aunt Hannah's rather 
antiquated manners, 
In some fashionable circles, would seem 
sadly out of place. 



Yet there's something quite refined in 
her manners and her mind, 
As you presently discover ; and 'tis well enough 
to know, 
Everything that now so odd is in the bon- 
net and the bodice 
Was the very height of fashion five-and- 
forty years ago. 

She was then a reigning belle; and I've heard old 
ladies tell 
How at all the balls and parties Hannah Amsden 
took the lead ; 
Perfect bloom and maiden sweetness, lily grace of 
rare completeness, 
Though the stalk stands rather stiffly now the 
flower has gone to seed. 

She had all that love could give, — all that 
makes it sweet to live, — 
Fond caresses, jewels, dresses ; and with elo- 
quent appeal 
Many a proud and rich adorer knelt- — in 
metaphor — - before her ; 
Metaphorically only does your modern 
lover kneel. 



THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. 



M 



Y fire is lit, my tea is fix'd, 

My curtains drawn, and all is snug-. 
Old Puss is in her elbow-chair, 
And Tray is sitting on the rug. 
Last night I had a curious dream, 

Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg , — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

She look'd so fair, she sang so well, 

I could but woo, and she was won ;' 
Myself in blue, the bride in white, 

The ring was placed, the deed was done ! 
Away we went in chaise-and-four, 

As fast as grinning boys could flog ; — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

What loving tete-a-tetes to come ! 
What tete-a-tetes must still defer ! 



When Susan came to live with me, 
Her mother came to live with her ! 

With sister Belle she couldn't part, 
But all my ties had leave to jog; — 

What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

The mother brought a pretty Poll ; 

A monkey, too, — what work he made ! 
The sister introduced a beau ; 

My Susan brought a favorite maid. 
She had a tabby of her own, — 

A snappish mongrel, christen'd Gog; — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

My clothes, they were the queerest shape ! 

Such coats and hats she never met ! 
My ways, they were the oddest ways ! 
My friends were such a vulgar set! 
Poor Tomkinson was snubb'd and huff'd, 
She could not bear that Mister Blo^s: ; — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 
What d'ye think of that, my dog? 



At times we had a spar, and then 

Mamma must mingle in the song ; 
The sister took a sister's part ; 

The maid declared her master wrong ; 
The parrot learned to call me " Fool," 

My life was like a London fog ; — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

Now, was not that an awful dream 

For one who single is and snug, 
With Pussy in the elbow-chair, 

And Tray reposing on the rug? 
If I must totter down the hill, 

'Tis safest done without a clog ; — 
What d'ye think of that, my cat? 

What d'ye think of that, my dog? 

— Thomas Hood. 



Glassy smiles and feeble chat, — then the 
parson took his hat. 
And the wedding-guests departed, glad to 
breathe the outer air ; 
Till the last farewell was taken, kind word 
offered, kind hand shaken, 
And the great house stood forsaken in its 
shame and its despair. 

With a firmness justified less by hope, perhaps, than 
pride. 
All her misery, all their pity, Hannah bore with- 
out complaint ; 
Till her hasting mother met her, pale and breath- 
less, with a letter, 
And she saw the superscription, and shrieked, 
" Frederick ! " and grew faint. 

With quick hand the seal she broke, and she 
neither breathed nor spoke, 
But a sudden ashy paleness all her fair face 
overspread ; 
And a terror seemed to hold her, and her 
cheek grew cold and colder, 
And her icy fingers rattled on the paper 
as she read. 



In her chamber once alone, on the floor 
she lay like stone, 
With her bridal gear about her, — all that idle, 
fine array; 
And the white moon, white and holy, to 
her chamber-bar climbed slowly, 
And looked in upon the lowly, wretched 
lady where she lay. 

Why the letter was delayed, what the poor excuse 
he made, 
Mattered little there to Hannah, lying on the 
moonlit floor. 
'Twas his heart that had miscarried ; for some new 
toy he had tarried ; 
In a fortnight he was married, and she never saw 
him more. 

Came the glorious autumn days — golden hills, 
cerulean haze — 
And still Hannah kept her chamber with her 
shame and her despair ; 
All the neighbors and relations came and 
offered consolations, 
And the preacher preached up patience, 
and remembered her in prayer. 



Spite of all that they could say, Hannah 
Amsden pined away, 
Came the dull days of November, came the win- 
ter wild and white ; 
Lonely, listless, hours together she would 
sit and watch the heather, 
Or the cold bright constellations pulsing 
in the pallid night. 

For a twelve-month and a day so poor Hannah 
pined away. 
Came once more the fatal morning, came the 
dread hours that had been ; 
All the anguish she lived over, waiting, waiting for 
her lover, 
Then the new dawn shone about her, and a 
sweeter dawn within. 

All her soul bleached white and pure, taught 
by suffering to endure ; 
Taught by sorrow to know sorrow, and to 
bind the bleeding heart, 
Now a pale and placid sister in the world 
that lately missed her, — 
Sweetly pale where Peace had kissed her, 
— patient Hannah chose her part. 



To do good was her delight, all her study- 
day and night ; 
And around her, like a fragrance in the halo 
round a saint, 
Breathed the holy exhalation of her life 
and occupation. 
But the rising generation soon began to 
call her quaint. 

For her self-forgetfulness even extended to her 
dress ; 
Milliner and mantua-maker never crossed her 
threshold more ; 
But the bodice and the bonnet with the wondrous 
bow upon it, 
Kept their never-changing fashion of the faded 
years before. 

So she still goes up and down on her errands 
through the town ; 
And sometimes a school-girl titters, or an 
urchin stops to grin, 
Or a village cur barks at her, but to her 'tis 
little matter — 
You may fleer -or you may flatter — such 
deep peace her soul is in. 



If heeded, 'twas because, in their wor- 
ship, their applause, 
Her perfection was reflected, and a pleasing 
music heard ; 
But she suffered them no nearer than her 
goldfinch or her mirror ; 
And she hardly held them dearer than 
her pier-glass or her bird. 

.But at last there came a day. when she gave her 
heart away, — 
If that rightly be called giving which is neither 
choice nor will, 
But a charm, a'fascination, and a wild, sweet ex- 
ultation, — 
All the fresh young life outgoing in a strange 
ecstatic thrill. 

At a city ball, by chance, she first met his 
ardent glance. 
He was neither young nor handsome, but a 
man of subtle parts, 
With an eye of such expression as your 
lover by profession 
Finds an excellent possession when he 
goes a-hunting hearts. 



It could trouble ; it could burn ; and when 
first he chanced to turn 
That fine glance on Hannah Amsden it lit up 
with swift desire, 
With a certain dilatation, and a radiant 
admiration, 
And shut down her soul's deep heaven, 
like a meteor trailinsf fire. 



*& 



How was any one to know that those eyes had 
looked just so 
On a hundred other women with a gaze as 
bright and strange? 
There are men who change their' passions, even 
oftener than their fashions, 
And the best of loving always, to their mind, is 
still to change. 

Nay, it was not base deceit ; his own conquest 
seemed complete. 
They were soon affianced lovers ; and her 
opening life was filled 
With the flush of flame-lit fancies, morning's 
rosy-hued romances, 
All the dews of hope and rapture love's 
delicious dawn distilled. 



Home the country maiden went ; and a 
busy summer spent 
All in bridal preparations, blissful troubles, 
happy woes ; 
Fitting dresses, filling presses, little crosses 
and distresses, — 
Those preliminary prickles to the hy- 
meneal rose. 

Never, since the world began, course of true love 
smoother ran. 
Not an eddy of dissension, nor the ripple of a 
doubt ; | 

All the neighbors and relations came with kind 
congratulations, 
And a hundred invitations to the wedding-feast 
went out. 

All. the preparations thrived, and the wedding- 
day arrived ; 
Pleased, but pensive, moved the mother; and 
the father with a smile, 
Broad and genial as the summer, gave a wel- 
come to each comer. 
All things turned on golden hinges, all 
went merry for a while. 



And the lovely bride, arrayed all in laces 
and brocade, 
Orange blossoms in her tresses (strange as now 
the story seems), 
Quite enchanting and enchanted, in her 
•chamber blushed and panted, 
And but one thing now was wanted to 
fulfil her darling dreams. 

For the clergyman was there, to unite the happy 
pair, 
And the guests were all assembled, and the 
company sat dumb ; 
And the banquet was belated, and the maid was 
still unmated, 
And the wedding waited, waited, for a coach 
that did not come. 

Then a few began to sneer, and a horror and 
a fear 
Fell on friends and anxious parents ; and the 
bride, with cheek aflame. 
All too rudely disenchanted, in her chamber 
paced and panted, 
And the one thing still was wanted, and 
the' one thinsf never came. 



Among all the sick and poor there is 
nobody so sure 
Of a welcome and a blessing ; and who sees her 
once appear, 
Coming round some poor man's trellis with 
her dainty pots of jellies, 
Or big basket brimmed with bounty, 
soon forgets that she is queer. 

For her pleasant words addressed to the needy and 

distressed, 

Are so touching and so tender, full of sympathy 

and cheer, 

By the time your smile is ready for the simple, dear 

old lady, 

It is pretty sure to tremble in the balance with 

a tear. 

— J. T. Trowbridge. 

(By permission of Lee & Shepard.) 



THE SHOWMAN 



TIGER LILY, LILIUM TIGRLNUM. 
LEOPARD BEGOMA. 

ZEBRA VINE, TRADESCANTIA ZEBRINA. 
LION'S TONGUE, LILIUM. 
ELEPHANT'S EARS, BEGONIA REX. 
MONKEY PACES, MIMULUS. 



T 



HE tiger, darting fierce, 
Impetuous on the prey his 
glance has doom'd ; 
The lively-shining leopard, speckled o'er 
With many a spot, the beauty of the waste. 

— The Seasons. — THOMSON. 



Th' unwieldy elephant 
To make them mirth, us'd all his might and 
wreathed 
His lithe proboscis. 

— Paradise Lost. — MlLTON. 



TO A CAGED LION. 



Monarch of India's burning plain ! 
Where once in undisputed reign 

Thou held'st despotic sway ; 
Lord of the desert once, and king, — 
Thou who a dauntless glance could fling 

Back to the god of day ! — 



There's terror still upon thy brow, 
And pomp about thee, even now. 

How great, how fallen ! Caged and chained 
By him on whom thou once disdained 

To cast contemptuous look ; 
Those iron bars, that narrow floor, 
The confines of that prison-door, 

How can thy spirit brook? 
Throbs yet thy all-unconquered heart, 
As when it played the monarch's part? 

Methinks, when fettered in a cage, 
With one resistless roar of rage 

And madness uncontrolled, 
Thy great heart, at the very first, 
Should in its agony have burst 

Beneath the captive hold. 
Worthy thy life, old king, would be 
Such death to set thy spirit free. 

Yet here thou art, shut up and cramped, 
With all thy haughty ardor damped, ( 
Ignobly shown about ; 



A terror to each childish fear, 
The subject of full many a jeer, 

From many a rabble rout, — 
A living lesson to the world, 
How low a monarch may be hurled. 

Yet all thy greatness is not fled, — 
Thou hast a solemn, measured tread, 

As in thy loftier days; 
Majestic still thine eyeballs flash, 
That sternly mortal eyes can dash 

When they return thy gaze. 
Thou art Imperial ! And no chains 
Can base the blood in royal veins. 

Say what they may, thy spirit dwells 
Unconquered still, and freedom swells 

Within thy breast till death ; 
Thou, as thy sires, wast born to rule, 
And thy king-passion cannot cool, 

But with thy latest breath ; 

Though servile chains around thee cling, 

Still art thou " every inch a king ! " 
— Undertow of a Trade-wind Surf. — Geo. H. Clark. 



THE MENAGERIE. 



Johnny, darling, that's the bear 

As tore the naughty boys to pieces ; 
Horned cattle ! — only hear 

How the dreadful camel wheezes ! 
That's the tall giraffe, my boy, 

Who stoops to hear the morning lark, — 
'Twas him who waded Noah's flood, 

And scorned the refuge of the ark. 

There's the bell ! The birds and beasts 

Now are going to be fed ; 
So, my 'little darlings, come, 

It's time for you to be a-bed. 
Mother, 'tisn't nine o'clock, — 

You said we needn't go before ; 
Let us stay a little while, — 

Want to see the monkeys more ! 

Cries the show-man : " Turn 'em out ! 
Dim the lights ! There, that will do 



Come again to-morrow, boys, 
Bring your little sisters, too." 

Exit mother, half distraught, 

Exit father, muttering " Bore ! " 

Exit children, blubbering still, — 
" Want to see the monkeys more ! " 

— " Undertow of a Trade-wind Surf." — GEORGE H. Clark. 



THE SMOKER'S FLOWERS 



PIPE VINE, ARISTOLOCPIIA SIPHO, 
CIGAR-PLANT, CUPPLEA PLATYCENTKA, 















Vjjl 








\ ^ 


^^L 








^^H^^W^ 


4 




*■ 




/' 


y 


' § 

















TO MY CIGAR. 



YES, social friend, I love thee well, 
In learned doctor's spite; 
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel, 
And lap me in delight. 

What though they tell, with phizzes long, 

My years are sooner passed ? 
I would reply, with reason strong, 

They're sweeter while they last. 

And oft, mild friend, to me thou art 

A monitor, though still ; 
Thou speak'st a lesson to my heart, 

Beyond the preacher's skill. 

Thou'rt like the man of worth, who gives 

To goodness every day, 
The odor of whose virtues lives 

When he has passed away. 



When, in the lonely evening" hour. 

Attended but by thee, 
O'er history's varied page I pore, 

Man's fate in thine I see. 

Oft, as thy snowy column grows, 

Then breaks and falls away, 
I trace how mighty realms thus rose, — 

Thus tumbled to decay. 

A while, like thee, earth's masters burn, 

And smoke and fume around ; 
And then, like thee, to ashes turn, 

And mingle with the ground. 

Life's but a leaf adroitly rolled, 
And time's the wasting breath, 

That, late or early, we behold, 
Gives all to dusty death. 

From beggar's frieze to monarch's robe, 
One common doom is passed ; 

Sweet nature's works, the swelling globe, 
Must all burn out at last. 



And what is he who smokes thee now ? — 

A little moving heap, 
That soon, like thee, to fate must bow, — 

With thee in dust must sleep. 

But though thy ashes downward go, 

Thy essence rolls on high ; 
Thus, when my body must lie low, 

My soul shall cleave the sky. 

— Charles Sprague. 
(By permission of Cupples, Upham, & Co.) 



THE DANDY 



COCK'S-OOMB, GELOSIA, 



T 



HE glass of fashion, and the mould of form. 

SHAKSPEARli. 



— With a riding whip 
Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, 
And curving a contumelious lip. 



• Maud. — Tennyson. 



THE TRAMP 



RUN-A WAY-TOM, A SPECIES OP GILIA. 
RAG-WEED, AMBROSIA ARTEMISIAE, 
WAY-BREAD, PLANTAGO MAJOR. 



\A/ ITH llis netner g arme nts fractured, 
And his coat so rent and tattered, 
With his shoes so very rusty, 

And his crownlesshat so battered." 

Grown familiar with disfavor, 
Grown familiar with the savor 
Of the bread by which men die ! 

— The Legend Beautiful. — H. w. Longfellow. 

(By permission of Houghton, Mifflin, & Co." 



YOUTH AND OLD AGE 



YOUTH AND OLD AGE, SINGLE TINNIA. 

BABY FACES, LUPLNUS. 

OLD MAN, SOUTHERNWOOD, ARTEMESIA. 



T 



'HERE he lay upon his back, 
The yearling creature, warm 
and moist with life 
To the bottom of his dimples, — to the ends 
Of the lovely tumbled curls about his face ; 
For, since he had been covered overmuch 
To keep him from the light glare, both his cheeks 
Were hot and scarlet as the first live rose 
The shepherd's heart-blood ebbed away into, 
The faster for his love. And love was here 
As instant: in the pretty baby-mouth. 
Shut close as if for dreaming that it sucked ; 
The little naked feet drawn up the way 
Of nestled birdlings ; everything so soft 
And tender, — to the tiny holdfast hands, 
Which, closing on the finger into sleep, 
Had kept the mould of 't. 

— Aurora Leigh. — MRS. BROWNING. 



" Days of my youth, ye have glided away; 
Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and gray , 
Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more ; 
Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o'er; 
Strength of my youth, all your vigor is 

gone; 
Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions 

are flown. 

" Days of my youth, I wish not your recall ; 
Hairs of my youth, I'm content ye should fall ; 
Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen ; 
Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears you have been ; 
Thoughts of my youth, you have led me astray; 
Strength of my youth, why lament your decay? 

" Days of my age, ye will shortly be past; 

Pains of my age, yet a while you can last ; 

Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight ; 

Eyes of my age, be religion your light ; 

Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod ; 

Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your 

God!" 

— St. George Tucker. 



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